Friday, April 14, 2023
Stop calling it suicide
Saturday, November 26, 2022
Dear kids
Your sister and me at the park yesterday. |
Dear kids,
I am writing to you from Japan. It is two days after Thanksgiving, and I haven't seen you in three months. Three months ago, I took your little sister, got on a plane, and flew away. I never dreamed I would do it. I never dreamed that after spending 25 years fighting to be with you and keep you with me above all else, I would walk away.
When this job was presented to me, I thought about the leaving and living without you, and I pushed it from my mind. Whenever I started to think about how much I would miss you, I just put those thoughts into a compartment in my brain. I try to think how I thought I would live for two years without you in my daily life and not lose my mind. I try to think how I thought I would be okay. And, again, I just put those thoughts and feelings into the little compartment inside my brain. I think growing up as a child of divorce and then as a parent of divorce, you have to have compartments because sometimes to feel all the things at once is too much for one heart to handle. But sometimes, those compartments cause us to make decisions without sitting with the full weight of their consequences on our minds.
So I accepted this job. And I packed up our house. And I quit my job. And I withdrew your sister from school. And then we kept waiting for the tickets and the date to be set, so we didn't have a deadline. It was so easy to keep moving along like our world wasn't about to be blown apart. We joked about me not even telling you, and just being gone one day- but we wouldn't really have ever done that. And then the tickets were bought and we were leaving in four days. And then I had it all planned in my head how we would say goodbye. We would have dinner at the ranch and everyone would be together, so I could just give you each a hug real quick and run out the door. And it worked- sort of. Because after I hugged and kissed everyone, and squeezed my babies close to my heart, I realized that Brady wasn't there. My hell, where was that kid? And he was back at the house. So I drove back, and you, my stubborn, hard-headed, kept-saying-that-you-didn't-even-care-that-I-was-leaving, walked out sobbing. And as I held on to you and told you it would be okay, I got this pain right in the center of my chest. This pain right inside of and behind my sternum. And it hurt all the way home.
And when I woke up the next morning to drive to the airport, I almost didn't go. I almost stayed in bed. I almost quit before I ever started. But I went, with the pain in my chest, I went. And that pain didn't leave for weeks. For the first three weeks we were here, that pain gnawed at my heart every day, and I walked around wondering what in the hell I had done. And when Clara cried for her daddy, or her house, or her sister, or her brothers, or Sky or Trent, or Mae and Benny, I wondered what in the hell I had done. But everyone here says that it gets better, so I kept pushing through and telling us that we would be okay.
And three weeks later when Jason got here, I thought the sight of him would break me, but it didn't. Because Clara climbed into his arms and all I felt was the peace of knowing her heart was full, and we would be okay because she would be okay and he would be with us. And then we went up to our hotel room, and Jason handed me a hoodie that had been at the ranch with him and I smelled my mother's house and I sobbed big ugly sobs. And all I wanted was to go home. And then we moved into our new house.
The first night in our new house, with the 17 pieces of borrowed government furniture and the contents of 6 suitcases and one box of loaner kitchen goods, I thought we were going to die. The wind was so strong and it all seemed so strange, and I thought we would be blown away. I woke up probably 15 times waiting to hear the sound of the big voice telling us to seek higher ground, or get in a closet or something because the world was ending. And all I wanted was to go home. But our household had been packed up and was on its way, and I had a contract for two years. So I had to suck it up and pray to all the gods that everyone here was right and the homesickness would abate with time.
Three months in and our household goods have arrived. I am sleeping in my own bed, with my own pillow and sitting in my own rocking chair at night. I check out books from the base library and we buy our groceries from the commissary. I love my job and Clara is settled in and has friends and a loving teacher and enjoys school. Jason is learning how to run our house and has figured out how to work the Japanese appliances and traverse the grocery shopping and bill paying and other challenges of being foreigners in a country that is not our own. I spend my free time planning trips and traveling, and I think that is what has finally helped the homesickness abate. It is still there, but it is tucked neatly in its little compartment in my brain where it shakes just enough to keep me calling you guys in a rotation each morning and each weekend when we are at home.
And in just 10 days I am coming home to watch you, T, graduate from college. I am so excited to see you all. I often imagine hugging each of you and feeling your weight, smelling your smell and seeing your eyes. It brings me great joy and great pain, so luckily I don''t do it as often as I did when I first arrived. But now, as I am preparing to come home for a short trip, the homesick is growing every day, and I don't know how I am going to leave you all again. Because, I just realized, it has only been three months since I have seen you. And this time, when I hug you goodbye, it will be six months and one grandbaby until I see you again. And my heart is already breaking.
I love you and I miss you more than anyone could think possible to miss their children after only three months, but I am missing you for two years all at once, every day. I cannot wait to hold you and hug you soon. My heart breaks already from leaving you again.
You are my heart, my world and all the stars. I love you across the sea and into tomorrow,
Mom
Sunday, April 10, 2022
The hardest part
The hardest part of depression is hard to pinpoint.
There is absolutely nothing good about it.
But the hardest part is not trusting my own mind.
I wake up and feel like the entire ocean is laying over me.
I force myself out of bed, and struggle to the shower.
I manage to get dressed and feed myself.
I fold a load of laundry, and I am so tired that I lay myself down on the couch I had been sitting on and fall asleep for two hours.
I wake up, and the ocean is still crushing me.
Am I sick? Is something wrong with me? Do I need to seek medical help?
Or is it just depression? Is it just in my head?
I don't know.
But I wash, fold and put away three loads of laundry.
And I feed myself.
And that is all.
I spend the day sleeping or laying down. So tired that I cannot function.
So tired that I don't have energy to care or move.
I just pray tomorrow is a better day. Maybe I will figure out if I am actually sick or if it is just depression coming back again.
Tomorrow is here.
And the goddamn ocean is sitting on my chest again.
My husband asks if I am going to get up today.
I am going to try.
And I force myself out of the bed.
Take a shower, put on clothes, brush my teeth.
Walk like a zombie through the house with pain in my chest.
It is hard to breathe.
When I speak, I have to hold in my diaphragm because it hurts to talk.
My husband says he can tell from my face we should have cancelled the breakfast.
And I want to shout that I am doing my best. I am up. I am moving. I am wiping down the table and picking up the house. But now I have to worry about my face. I am trying. But I don't say anything because I do not have the energy.
Because I cannot care. I cannot worry. I just have to keep moving. Keep slogging through the water that doesn't abate.
I make it through our breakfast. I snuggle my grands and we decorate eggs. I can do all the things. None of the kids see that anything is wrong. When they leave, I use the energy they brought and shared with me to replant the flowers that were wilting in their tiny plastic pots.
I will not lay down. If I do, I will not get back up. I am so tired. Living is heavy. Breathing is hard. So I am pretty sure after two days that nothing is wrong with me. It is just depression come back. It is just depression trying to kill me. To drown me. To bury me.
It is my body trying to give up.
It is my mind telling me that I don't care and I don't feel and it doesn't matter.
It is my heart beating painfully in my chest.
It is my lungs trying to breathe when it hurts so much.
It is my soul aching for rest.
It is just fucking depression.
And it wants me to die.
But somewhere deep inside of me lives something that knows I cannot trust my body. Or my mind. Or my heart. Or my soul. Somewhere deep inside is the part that my children feed with their love. The part that keeps me fighting when every other part of me is ready to give up.
I will never give up.
This little part of me that hides from the monsters will never let me.
em 4/10/22
Wednesday, March 2, 2022
Pedestal
You say our children put me on a pedestal
that you can never reach me
that you can work forever
and they will never set you high
If I am on a pedestal, it is a pedestal I built
with my blood and my tears
my sacrifice and my love
It is a pedestal to raise my children up; it was never meant for me
I built it piece by piece to give them everything
Everything I had and everything I never had
The dreams I wanted for myself and never reached
the dreams I hoped they would create themselves
The guilt of being a single parent, the fear of never being enough
The agony of trying to be two parents instead of one
But mostly it was built of my love
A love unyielding and unbending
A love forged before they took their first breath
A love worth giving everything that I am to grow
I gave them all of me, every particle, every fiber
I showed up every time and I stayed by their side
And for that, they held on to me as I lifted them up
onto a pedestal made of my heart
em
3/2/22
Saturday, September 4, 2021
Somewhere between despair and rage
I find myself somewhere between despair and rage.
I despair that we teach our daughters that they are strong and brave,
that they are smart and equally intelligent to men
that they are capable of making decisions and running the world.
We tell them to be leaders, to break glass ceilings
to shatter the out-dated belief that women can't
We tell these daughters that they can
We tell these daughters nothing can stop them if only they believe
If only they work, and strive and persevere
If only they prove to the world that they can and they are
They will be enough
They will be enough to change the world
For years, women have fought, bled, died to see them succeed
to see them run, to see them soar on wings denied to us-
And then I watch the patriarchy hand them a plate
with the past being served as the future
with the pain inflicted upon generations of women
served up as tomorrow's reality
Our leaders erase the progress we have made
They claim to love "life"
and I call them out on their lies
They claim the life of the unborn must be protected
They do not protect a woman's blood and body, heart and soul
They do not even see her-
I tell my daughters that they are precious and powerful humans
And perhaps that is the greatest lie
I despair.
I rage.
I rage against the patriarchy
against our elected leaders
against the Supreme Court
against everyone who supports this abhorent law they have placed in our path
this "heartbeat" bill
that tells a woman the tiny heartbeat inside her is all that matters
not her own heartbeat
not her safety
not her mental health
not her body
not her future
not her will
not even her life.
I rage against these people who tell us that we cannot make our own medical decisions
who tell us we are nothing more than an incubator for life-
whether we consent or not
whether we want it or not
whether it will kill us or not
whether it will survive or not.
I rage against everyone who supports this choice
who does not have a utersus
who has never been pregnant
who has never known what it feels like to be pregnant and afraid
I rage against you
You should not have a voice at this table
You should sit down
You should, quite frankly, shut the hell up.
I rage for the young girl forced to carry her brother in her own body
I rage for the disabled young woman who had no ability to consent, who doesn't understand the pain of what is happening inside of her
I rage for the high school student who made one wrong choice and will now live her life with the proof of her shame as the center of her life
I rage for the girl carrying a child that will not live outside the womb that she must continue to feel living inside of her, knowing that it is a false hope, but not able to give up
I rage for the woman from a broken home who found out she was pregnant after her husband left her
I rage for the college student who was gang raped at a party and must carry the child of a man she can never name
I rage for the women who will live lives they cannot afford, raise children they do not want, and suffer psychological trauma because of this law
I rage for me
I rage for my daughters
I rage for the millions of women who will die because history does not lie.
Abortion will never stop
Abortion will become deadly, dangerous to the very women whose lives we should be protecting.
Women will bleed. And women will die.
We. Will. Die.
I rage with the blood of generations of women running through my veins.
The women who survived your abuse and your rape and your servitude, who lived and died in the hope the world would be kinder to their daughters. They rage.
I rage with the fury of the lies we have been told-
for with your vote and your law and your judgement
you bind me in shackles to assert your control and shape my future without my consent
(which I guess, in the end, is the point of your law).
Images from: https://www.latimes.com/opinion/la-xpm-2014-mar-25-la-ol-the-coat-hanger-symbol-of-dangerous-preroe-abortions-is-back-20140324-story.html and https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/soloish/wp/2017/07/10/i-perform-abortions-the-men-i-date-often-see-me-as-a-political-symbol/
Saturday, August 28, 2021
I grieve
I grieve
I grieve for the loss of you
I ache with the pain of it
I grieve and I grieve
and I hate myself for it
for you have broken me over and over again
and I have forgiven you every time
now you break my children
over and over again
and they forgive you every time
so why do I grieve?
why can't I hold on to the rage?
I grieve
for the loss of our combined family
for the loss of our shared memory
for the loss of our future
the things we were meant to witness together
I watch them alone and I grieve
A few weeks ago, I took M's last first day of school picture,
and I almost sent it to you
and then I remembered
you do not speak to me
you do not see me
you have turned me into a ghost
and instead of the rage and anger I should feel
I grieve
and I send the picture to our daughter
so she can send it to you and you will only feel joy
because even after all you did
even after all the hate and lies
I still wish you well
I still hope you happy
I still grieve
And part of me wants you to know
Would you be satisfied to know?
Would you chuckle to hear you still wield power over me?
Would you be happy I hurt?
But part of me wants to know
Do you forgive me?
Will you ever?
Do you grieve?
Because I do
I grieve
sometimes
until there is nothing but tears
and a well of anguish
and a sorrow that shakes my soul
I grieve
8/28/21
Wednesday, August 19, 2020
Teaching during Covid
I spent the last few months reading social media and listening to people in real life talk about teachers. These people, none of them teachers, were saying things like,
"Breaks over teachers, time to get back to work!"
"You are an essential worker, get over yourself and embrace it!"
"You just had five months off, what are you complaining about?"
"Why are teachers so lazy that they don't want to work?"
And this is what I did- I listened to these words. I absorbed them. I internalized them. And I allowed these words to hurt me. I allowed these people to affect my perception of myself and allowed these people to make me angry. I allowed myself to respond to their comments. I allowed myself to spend my precious energy on this negativity.
And then I realized something that a dear friend has been saying to me for over a year. She says something to the affect of, "People don't understand what we do. We have to get our validation from each other, and if other people want to appreciate us, that is just a bonus."
I was reading "Teach Like a Pirate" by Dave Burgess, and he basically said the same thing. And after hearing it from two different sources, I had the great "Aha!" moment.
In teaching, as I'm sure in most professions, there is a reason you do it. There is a "why". Obviously, in teaching, the why is not for the money. My personal "why" is for the children. I believe that every single child deserves to have someone believe in them and encourage them to be their best.
I am a teacher
I would jump in front of a bus for one of my students
I would stand between them and a gun
I would run through fire to get them out of a burning building
(We practice these things and real teachers do them)
Every day, I check that they are clean, fed, and rested
Every day, I make sure their medical needs are met and check for signs of illness
Every day, I check for signs of neglect or abuse or trafficking
Every day, I protect their privacy
Every day, I teach them skills like shaking hands and looking in my eye
Every day, I make sure each child's individualized plan is followed
Every day, I engage them
Every day, I say their name
Every day, I make them feel safe
and loved
and wanted
and special
Every day, I teach them
I listen to them
I speak to them
Every day, I advocate for them
Every day.
And now I teach full-time in person learning
full-time virtual learning
and some hybrid version of these two
I am learning a gazillion new acronyms and how to use more technology
how to teach from 6 feet away
wearing a mask
unable to hug these children that I love
teaching them without even seeing them.
From now until it ends.
Every day.
And after all of this, some people are going to complain. Judge. Hate.
But do you know what?
I don't have time for haters.
I don't have time to even read the comments.
I have students to teach
and a world to change.
Image credits:
1. https://www.economist.com/international/2020/03/19/how-covid-19-is-interrupting-childrens-education.
2. Me